Everything Changes
by Milesy
Summary: Who Killed Markiplier Wilford thought Mark had made a mistake marrying his friend's sister. And maybe he did, but it's not the worst one he's made. Or: Wilford is fed up with everyone's bullshit and needs new friends.


He couldn't have been that drunk. The night had barely got started. He was being robbed blind by Damien, so he decided to get up and get some air for a few hands. Except he couldn't seem to find a door out of the house. Winding stairs and twisting corridors, and doors that didn't seem to go where he felt like they should. He found his way to the home cinema twice somehow, through what he was pretty sure were opposite ends of the house.

No. He wasn't drunk. He didn't get this wasted after two drinks, ever.

Wilford decided to give up and head back to the game. But instead of finding it, the room he stepped into was one he hadn't seen before, with intricate tapestries hung on the walls, and densely-packed shelves in front of the tapestries.

"Are you lost?"

Celine never attended the parties. Wilford had sometimes wondered where she disappeared to, and now he'd found it. She lay comfortably on a chaise, with several books spread out wherever they'd fit. She was writing something with a feather quill in a big, leather-bound journal.

"You know, it's the craziest thing. I could have sworn this was the bar," Wilford said.

He should have turned to continue his search. Instead, he lingered in the doorway, looking at the unending assortment on the shelves. Books, decks of cards, a spirit board, countless rocks and crystals. Many more things he couldn't begin to identify.

"It helps if you sit down and stay in one place for a few minutes," Celine said. "This house plays tricks on you."

"Does it now?" He chose to take her words as an invitation inside, since trying to find anywhere else was probably going to go no better than his previous wanderings had. Wilford stepped into the room, pulling out a chair at the small table just inside. "So this is where you disappear off to," he said.

Celine smiled tightly, and Wilford felt like he'd misjudged. "Yes, well. You boys need your space, don't you?"

"Do we?" he asked. It always felt like Mark had expected more people to attend than did.

Celine said nothing, and went right on copying down something into her journal.

"What kind of important work is that, now?" he asked.

This time, she didn't even look up. "Just that. Important work."

Wilford had no idea what Mark had seen in this woman. She was always so cold and distant, and he decided to take the hint and get up. "I suppose I'll try my luck once more," he said as he saw himself out to try to find the game again.

⁂

He almost never made it to a reasonable place to pass out for the night, and this morning, it was no exception. He woke with his neck burning from being slumped over in a chair for hours, but it wasn't what woke him. It was the argument.

"Why does it always have to be here?" Celine said too loudly from behind a door somewhere. "Do nobody else have homes?"

"Celine, if you'd just make an effort," Mark said.

Wilford didn't want to stick around for the rest of it. If they wanted to have marital drama, it was none of his business. He quietly walked down the stairs to escape, but found their argument carried through the house. At the bottom, he found Damien standing in front of the French doors, staring distantly out over the property behind the house.

"I never should have introduced them," Damien said, shaking his head.

"Yes, what were you thinking?" Wilford asked. "I liked them better when she monopolised the man's time. At least then they didn't pretend like they didn't hate each other."

Damien rolled his eyes. "How was I supposed to know? She's the psychic; not me."

"Not much of a psychic if she didn't see this coming," Wilford muttered. He wandered off to find some caffeine, hoping to get out of range of the argument upstairs.

⁂

Mark was god knew where. The fight started in less than an hour, and they were already pushing it on making it downtown in time. While they waited for Mark to appear, ready to go, Wilford and Damien helped themselves to the mini bar. If they couldn't get there early, they could at least pre-game it. Footsteps down the stairs alerted both of them, and they put their drinks down so they could rush out the door. But it wasn't Mark coming down the stairs. It was Celine, so they both picked their glasses back up.

"Don't look so disappointed, Damien," Celine said as she walked by.

"I didn't say anything," Damien argued.

Wilford had nothing to say about any of it, if only because he knew he'd just start an argument if he did. He chose to glare at Damien instead.

"What?" Damien asked when he noticed.

Wilford shrugged and took a drink from his glass. If Damien didn't know by now, he never would.

"I'm going to go find Mark," Damien said, already walking toward the stairs. Wilford watched him go, choosing to stay behind where he could see the front door.

A few moments later, Celine walked back into the room. She paused at the entry, looking at the blank space beside Wilford.

"Where's Damien?" she asked.

Wilford shrugged. "I believe he went to go find your husband so we can get out of here."

"Well, please hurry," Celine said stiffly. She always seemed like she was so pissed off at everyone, and Wilford was sick of it.

"You seem to have mistaken me for someone you can blame for you being here," he said, taking another drink. "I believe you'll find I'm the only one here who thought it was a bad idea from the start."

Celine shook her head. "How dare you?" she said as she rushed off to do whatever was on her mind.

⁂

He was early. The damn clocks had all conspired against him so he'd arrive an hour early and be forced to wait for the rest of them to show up. Rather than being stuck right at the front of the house the entire time, he found Mark's study. He wasn't interested in any of the books on the shelves or scripts on the desk. He went straight toward the stereo, turned it on, and found a channel.

The house always seemed too quiet. Sound carried across the entire thing when it wanted to. If he was going to be waiting alone, Wilford refused to do it in silence. He landed on something with too much bass and left it there, slipping into the chair behind the desk. As he leaned back to get comfortable, he noticed the title on one of the scripts. That one was filming in his part of town, and he knew it because it made getting anywhere impossible. Mark wasn't in that one, so why was it on his desk? They didn't give full scripts at auditions, he thought.

He picked it up to get a closer look at it. Had he turned down the role? Why would he have done something like that?

"What are you doing in here?"

Wilford looked up to see Celine standing in the doorway. "Please don't mess with those," she said. She sounded tired.

"Why does he have this one if he's not in it?" Wilford asked, showing her the script.

"I don't know," Celine said. She stepped inside and turned off the music. "Why do you have it?"

Wilford watched her for a moment and put the script back down. "Awfully strange, don't you think?" he asked.

"No, there's nothing strange about it." She seemed to believe that. Mark had never turned down a role since Wilford had known him.

He wondered what Celine wasn't telling them. She was Damien's sister, so Wilford didn't believe she was out to do anything truly malicious, but she didn't seem to be up to any good either. "Aren't psychics supposed to know things like that?" he asked.

Celine sighed and shook her head. "I'm not—I'm not telepathic. I can't read minds."

Wilford found himself wondering, once again, what kind of psychic she was, then. Damien called her psychic, but he never seemed to be able to define that either.

"So what do you do?" he asked.

Celine looked at him intensely, like she was trying to make him uncomfortable. She probably weighed about 90 pounds, standing there trying to look tough. "I commune with the dead," she said.

Wilford nodded. "Must be why you're always so warm and friendly," he said.

"You don't have to come here, either," Celine said. Before Wilford could throw anything back, she walked away.

⁂

Damien always put too much money into his Christmas party. This year, Wilford was certain the man had rented out the entire hotel for the weekend, the way every staff member seemed to be on hand to cater to whatever anyone wanted.

The Christmas parties were nothing like Mark's poker nights. These parties were how Damien reminded all his political friends and rivals how much they should like him. Which meant every year, Wilford wound up wandering off to find his own entertainment, since he apparently wasn't important enough to talk to his own friend. The ballroom they'd been occupying had a large terrace that looked out over the street below, and it seemed like a good place to sneak away for a cigarette. It was dark and quiet out there, the rumble of city traffic carried up by the breeze.

As soon as he lit his cigarette, someone sighed behind him.

"Please don't do that right here," Celine said. She was in a chair over in the corner, looking just as bored as Wilford had felt.

"We're outside," he argued, before taking a drag.

"And the smoking area is downstairs," Celine said.

She was going to be irritating the entire time. Wilford snuffed his cigarette out on the balustrade, not without rolling his eyes. "Jesus, you'll follow me to the ends of the earth just to bitch," he said.

"Whatever," Celine said.

"What happened? Did he go and get too important for his own creepy twin?" Wilford asked.

For once, Celine didn't answer. Not right away. "It was this, or sit in that house alone," she said finally.

Wilford almost laughed. He still didn't know why Mark had decided that was the house he needed to live in. Wilford wasn't even certain it wasn't haunted. "Where's your husband at?" he asked. She may have been avoiding him, but maybe Mark could prove to be a good distraction from the endless boredom of the schmooze-fest.

"Probably in some closet with his hand's up some intern's skirt somewhere," Celine said. Her words were bitter, and she looked away as she talked. It wasn't hyperbole.

"I thought it was just the once," Wilford said. "That what he'd said."

"Well, he lied," Celine said.

Wilford shook his head. He spent a moment trying to decide what to do with his cigarette before pulling out the pack and sliding it back in.

"This party stinks anyway," he said, turning to leave. He stopped at the door, turning to look back at Celine. She was hiding in the dark, with her arms crossed over her chest. She wasn't looking at Wilford, which felt more deliberate than circumstance. "Let's get out of here."

Celine glanced over at him for just a moment before looking away again. "With you?" she asked. She shook her head. "I don't think so."

Wilford shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'm not staying through this tragedy."

He left her there, to sulk by herself in the dark.

⁂

The game had devolved. This was nothing new. Every week, cards were eventually forgotten and more than just booze was passed around by the butler. Whatever the man was handing out this time was not mixing well with the half a whiskey bottle Wilford had been working on all night. He needed to get out of there; get away from the noise and find some fresh air. Nobody noticed as he slipped away from the rest of the group and began wandering through the house. Why could he never find a door when he needed one? How did anyone live in a place like this and not go completely insane.

Somehow, he found himself at the top of the stairs. He hadn't gone up any stairs. He stood at the landing, looking down at where he'd started. They didn't even have the decency to be the stairs at the front of the house. He turned, hoping to find his way somewhere useful sooner or later.

The noise from the riot seemed to be right beneath him, no matter where he went. It never got any quieter, making him wonder if he'd ever actually left the room. He wasn't the only person to be bothered by it though. As he stumbled past a door, it flew open and he was almost run over by a woman on a tirade.

"Why are you up here?" Celine demanded. If she was pissed, Wilford could hardly blame her. Every noise from downstairs went straight through his skull like a spike.

Wilford shoved his glasses up so he could rub his eyes. There was no air, and he was unbelievably tired for how early in the night it was. "Your fucking butler slipped me something again," he muttered. He tried to carry on, but the house's weird tricks meant he had no idea where he even was. Had he ever even seen this part of the house before?

Celine groaned and shook her head. "Come on," she said, grabbing him by the arm and spinning him around. He moved so quickly, it made him dizzy enough to start to feel ill. Or maybe he was already feeling ill and just hadn't noticed it.

She led him straight through the house, never once having to pause to look around. She knew exactly where she was going, and soon they were out back by he pool. Wilford sat down on the step and took a moment to just breathe, though there wasn't much air outside either.

"Do I need to call an ambulance?" Celine asked.

Wilford shook his head. That was the last thing he wanted. "I'd rather you called me a cab," he said after a moment.

"I don't think that's wise. Going home alone right now."

Wilford didn't want her advice. He wanted to get out of there. At the same time, he didn't think he'd be able to make the walk to the front door. He tried to say something, but wound up nearly falling over instead. Celine grabbed him by the arm again, barely managing to keep him from crashing onto the cold concrete. Once he regained his balance, she stood up and rushed back through the French doors. "Chef!" she shouted as she ran through the house.

She was gone after that. Wilford thought for good, but she came back shortly after, trailed by the brute of a man they kept in their kitchen.

"What the fuck do you want me to do about it?" he asked.

"Get him inside," Celine said.

Chef muttered unkindly under his breath as he hauled Wilford to his feet. He could barely stay upright as he was dragged back into the house, and was almost glad to be dumped back down onto a sofa.

"Go find out what Benjamin's giving them," Celine said, disappearing again. Chef wandered off in the other direction leaving Wilford alone. He wanted to lie down, but he'd been dropped awkwardly onto the sofa, leaning too far into the armrest to move at all in either direction. He was stuck, and he couldn't even conjure the coordination to sit up.

He struggled for about a year before Celine returned with a hot cup of tea. "If you spill this, or die on my sofa, I will be very angry," she warned as she pressed the cup into Wilford's hands.

He didn't want tea. He didn't know what he wanted. But Celine didn't give him that choice. She raised the cup for him, forcing him to drink. It had a strange taste he couldn't recognise, but he was pretty sure it didn't belong in tea.

Two sets of footsteps entered the room, and by the time Wilford looked up, their owners were already right next to him. While Chef waited impatiently to be dismissed, Damien waited for answers.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"I should ask you the same thing," Celine demanded. "What are you doing in there?"

Damien shook his head. "I—nothing. I haven't been drinking anything; I can't be hung over tomorrow."

"Deal with this. Please. I can't," Celine said, already leaving the room. Wilford watched her, feeling like time was moving in slow motion. She disappeared back toward the bar, and suddenly all the noise stopped.

⁂

Mark refused to do anything about his butler. Worse, he refused to admit that anything had happened. He insisted Wilford just couldn't hold his liquor. Wilford, in turn, refused to go back. It was one thing if he decided to blackout binge on his own, but he sure as hell didn't need help to do it.

Mark had changed. Wilford hadn't noticed it until then, but Mark had changed. He wouldn't hear anything about how whatever he was doing wasn't perfect. He was spending more money and working less. He hadn't taken a role all year. And now, he had taken to all but accusing Wilford of lying. Wilford had always assumed that Mark would be the one always on his side, no matter what. He wasn't. And Wilford didn't have time for that kind of behaviour in his life.

It made running into him at one of Damien's parties all the worse. Wilford didn't know why he still went to those either. Damien invited him, and then never said a single word to him the entire time. He should have stayed home.

"Good to see you're still getting out of the house," Mark said, his sing-songy tone almost mocking. "I was beginning to worry about you, old friend."

Wilford wanted to hit him. "I get out plenty," he said. "I just don't go where I'm not welcome."

Mark tried to laugh, but he couldn't manage it without sounding offended. Good. Wilford wanted him to be offended. "Not welcome? I invite you to my home. What's unwelcoming about that?"

Wilford shook his head. "You tell me," he said. He walked away, keen to find somewhere else to be.

He found his way out to the terrace and lit a cigarette. He'd made an appearance, and once he was done with his cigarette, he'd leave.

"Please don't do that here." It was a familiar complaint. Wilford stuffed it out without complaint.

"I hate all of this," he said. His friends weren't his friends anymore. Damien was too busy for him, and Mark had become a snake when he wasn't looking. Maybe it was time to cut ties and move on.

"Welcome to the club," Celine said from her seat in the corner.

"You'll at least be happy to know he wasn't fooling around with some intern," Wilford said. "Well, he might be now. Who knows?"

He looked back at Celine as she shook her head. She looked tired; bored with being there. "Are you well?" she asked after a long moment.

Wilford considered the question. "No lasting damage," he said finally. "I don't even believe I overdosed. Just a bad mix."

"Good," Celine said. She looked out over the city below, watching something distantly.

"Who do you come to these for?" Wilford asked. "I don't think I've ever seen Damien say one word to someone whose name wasn't on a ballot."

"I don't even know," Celine said.

Wilford sighed, slipped his cigarette back into the pack, and hid it away again in his pocket. "Let's get out of here," he said.

Celine looked at him for a long moment before grabbing her handbag from the floor and getting up. "Where are we going?" she asked, catching up to him to walk by his side.

Wilford didn't know. Anywhere that wasn't where they were. "I could really go for a steak right now," he said. He thought about going to one of the restaurants in the hotel, but that meant he'd still be in the same building as Mark and Damien. Instead, he led Celine down to the valet and handed off his ticket.

"What's good in this part of town?" he asked.

Celine shook her head. "Mark takes me to the same place every time. I couldn't even begin to imagine what's nearby."

That didn't sound like Mark either. How much had the man changed, and Wilford not noticed because he only ever saw the man at poker night? The thought unsettled him. He didn't have long to dwell on it though, because soon the valet brought his car back around. The young man got out and rushed around to the other side to hold the door open for Celine.

"Where can I get a good steak around here?" Wilford asked him.

The valet looked up, and pointed down the road. "About four blocks south," he said.

Wilford tipped him and walked around to get into the car.

Celine was deeply bitter. Wilford had known this for a long time, and she never seemed to go out of her way to hide it. Even at the restaurant, while she picked at her chicken, she seemed unhappy. Wilford let her have it, though. They were on the same page, and it was nice to not have to waste his breath arguing and sniping. They said very little to one another. Their only mutual topics of conversation were her husband and her twin brother, and Wilford was pissed off at both of them. Not for the first time, he wondered what Mark and Celine ever saw in one another, and not for the first time, he kept it to himself.

"You see it too now, don't you?" Celine said finally.

Wilford looked up, trying to figure out what had been mentioned that might have given context to her question.

"Come again?" he asked.

"Mark," Celine said. "He spends all his time in that house, and it's changed him."

"The house?" Wilford asked. "I thought it was the money. But I suppose having the kind of money to buy that kind of house amounts to the same thing."

Celine shook her head. "No. I don't mean it like that. The house itself. There's something wrong with it, and it's got inside him. He's not the same man."

Wilford thought about it. All the times the house would spit him out somewhere he wasn't meant to be. Haunted houses were weird sometimes. But they didn't tend to possess people.

"No," he agreed. "He sure as hell never thought he was better than the rest of us before." That was the worst part; the part that stung. That Mark had decided his friends were expendable.

"I'm glad it's not just me," Celine said.

⁂

They stayed in the restaurant for too long. Then after Wilford paid the cheque, they wandered to the bar and stayed there too long as well. It was the first time Wilford had ever heard her laugh. She hung onto his arm as they walked to his car in the dark, a completely different person than she'd been a few hours before.

"I suppose I should take you home before Mark starts to worry," Wilford said. He was not looking forward to that conversation.

"I don't want to go home," Celine said. She stopped him, making sure he was looking at her before she spoke again. "I had fun today. I don't want to ruin that by going back to that house."

Wilford thought about that. He'd misjudged her intentions before, and couldn't figure out if he was about to do it again. "My place is about twenty minutes away," he said.

Celine smiled and nodded. "Sure."

Wilford unlocked his car and opened the door for her to get in. He didn't know what he thought he was doing, or why he was doing it, but he drove out to his apartment. Celine relaxed in the passenger seat, saying nothing as she watched the city pass by outside her window. Her face had completely changed. Without her permanent sour expression pulling her features down and hardening them, Wilford realised exactly what Mark had seen in her. He had thought from day one that Mark had made a mistake by getting involved with her, and Wilford knew he was about to make the same one. And he could not bring himself to care.

Celine had the same idea. Everything happened quickly from the moment they got out of the car. At some point between there and the elevator ride up to his floor, they had begun kissing. He wanted to pin her against the wall right there, but it would hardly be decent. He managed to distance himself enough to walk down the hall to his door, only to be pulled right back in again before he could get his keys. He tried to multi-task, one hand fumbling for his keys in his pocket while he used the other to pull Celine's body closer to his. It didn't work, and the keys fell to the floor. He bent to pick them up and quickly unlocked his door, pulling Celine inside with him. The bedroom was too far away, so he led her to the sofa instead.

It didn't feel like a mistake at all.


End file.
